


I want your midnight's...

by KeepGoing



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mickey gets out of jail, Mickey is still hurt, Season 7 rewrite, Suicide Attempt, harsh words, its a long road back, mickey doesnt trust ian, mickey never breaks out of prison, they are both so messed up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:41:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23321113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepGoing/pseuds/KeepGoing
Summary: When Mickey sees Ian again 2 years after he was sent to prison, he didn't think it would be this way. He didn't want to see Ian again. He just wanted everything to be over. For the pain to stop. But no matter how Mickey tries to escape what once was between them, in so many different ways, he slowly comes to realize that the world is just too small, things are just too messed up with the both of them not to be in each others lives.“Don’t try and talk too much, Mick. You were intubated for a long time.”No shit asshole.“Jesus, Mick. Why didn't you tell me?”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 28
Kudos: 146





	1. But I stay when you're lost and I'm scared and you're turning away

**Author's Note:**

> There are suicide attempts in this fic. No graphic detail but its there. There is talk of abuse, violence, drug use, murder, etc. If these are triggers please don't go any further. Take care of yourself, please. 
> 
> This one will hurt. But then it will feel so good. I promise.
> 
> As always comments are LOVE.

At first you think it's your alarm clock. But then you remember you haven't had an alarm clock in years. The guards are your alarm clock. Or some worthless piece of shit who decides to come into your cell when you’re trying to nap…

No, its not a fucking alarm clock.

There’s flashes of something. The shiv. The blood. The relief. Then darkness. You felt the relief for a moment. Just a moment. And now? It's pain again. Something is sitting on your chest. You can't breathe. You try to breathe but it's hard. You swallow and it's like razor blades in your throat. 

What the FUCK is that beeping?

Then you feel warmth around your fingers and for a second the pain is gone. And you think maybe it worked. Maybe you were finally free from the pain. But you know you’re not. You know what that beeping is. You’re right back in hell.

You finally open your eyes; the world a little hazy but you’d know that body, that face, anywhere. You can't speak. You know that much.

“Don’t try and talk too much, Mick. You were intubated for a long time.”

No shit asshole.

“Jesus, Mick. Why didn't you tell me?”

You close your eyes and roll your head away from him. Fuck him. FUCK HIM.

“I know-” a sob escapes his lips. -”I know I wasn't around. I know what I did or fuck didn’t do. But...I’m still, I still...FUCK.” His fists hit the bed next to you and you don't even flinch. Nothing scares you now. Nothing.

“Get out.” 

It's barely audible, but you know it was loud enough for him to hear.

“No.”

“Get out, Ian.”

You won't cry. You promised yourself a long time ago you weren't going to shed one more tear over him. 

“I can't. I literally can't. I've been sitting here for weeks waiting for you to wake up. I haven't been to work. I've barely slept-”

“I don't care. Get out.”

“I can't, Mick. And I won't. I won't leave you. Not this time.”

You huff out a laugh and slowly roll your head across the stiff pillow and look at him. He looks awful. Eyes red and bloodshot. Clothes wrinkled. Skinny. Not sickly skinny but enough to tell he hasn't been eating. There's no crazy eyes so he must be at least taking his meds.

“Not this time?” You croak. “Why because I tried to off myself? Fuck you.”

“Yes. Because I didn't know you needed me this badly-”

“You? Needed you? I don’t fucking need you. This wasn't about you, you selfish prick. Now get the fuck out.”

You watch him swallow down tears but he doesn't move. “I never said it was about me. I won't claim to know what went on in that place. Or even what you went through as a kid..I never-”

Asked. You never asked you fucking asshole.

“-But it doesn't mean I don't care. It doesn't mean it doesn't kill me to see you like this. To know I wasn't there for you. And I’m sorry, Mick. Please just let me be there for you.”

“No. I don't want you here.”

He sighs. “I don’t care.”

You try to lift yourself up, to grab him, punch him, anything but your wrists stay restrained to the bed and you look down, wide eyed. Of course. Of fucking course. 

My how the tables have turned.

“It's just to be safe.”

“You’d know.”

It was a low blow you know. But you don’t fucking care. 

“I would. And I know it's not permanent. We didn't know how you’d be when you woke up…”

“There is no _we_ here. Now get the fuck out.”

“You can say anything you want. You can insult me, try and hurt me all you want. Fuck, you can even kick my ass once your out of that bed but it won’t change anything. I’m not going anywhere.”

You look out the door of your hospital room to see a cop camped right outside, sitting in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs reading a magazine.

“Don't worry about him. You’re not going back to jail.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, you've been unconscious a long time, Mick. I took care of it.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah? You a cop now? Lawyer? Detective?”

“Nah, just a Gallagher. And we Gallagher’s? We’ve gotten ourselves out of worse than you’ve been in. Much worse. So I took care of it.”

You laugh. It just comes out of you. It burns your throat and causes radiating pain to shoot through your body, but you can't stop. This whole thing...it’s just fucking funny if you really think about it.

“Oh and you don't need to worry about your Dad anymore. I took care of that too.”

“Right, what’d you do? Kill him?”

“Nope. Just pinned Sami on him. Was kinda easy actually. So you’re free. So to speak. The cop is just a precaution. Few questions here, whatever. But once you're better and out of here, you can come home.”

You swallow the glass in your throat and take in everything Ian just said to you. How...why...what...there's no way.

“Home.” You snort. “There is no home anymore.”

“You’ll always have a home, Mick. You always had one with me.”

You grimace and look away from him again.

“You didn't ask for a lawyer. You didn't even have a public defender. It was so easy for it to look like you took the fall for Terry. He came to my house that night looking for you and me to hurt us. He found Sami. Tortured her. Left her for dead. Sami didn't know it wasn't you. Just knew Milkovich. Doesn't matter much. She's dead anyway so it's not like she can argue it.” He sounds so damn proud of himself. And if you were being honest with yourself, you're a little proud too.

“You kill her?”

“Carl.”

You shake your head and close your eyes. “So the whole Gallagher clan was in on this, huh?”

“Just the ones who care about you. Which pretty much makes all of us. And Carl didn't really kill her. Just gave her enough H to kill a horse. And it worked. She did it to herself. Wasn't that hard.”

All the ones who care about you. No one cares about you. That's been made very fucking clear to you after all these years.

“I know we let you down. I know we disappeared after everything. The way you helped me. Took care of me. Loved me. They don't just forget that stuff. Maybe I did...maybe I got lost for a while, but I know I loved you. And I still do-”

“Don’t. Don’t fucking dare.”

“Fine. I’ll wait. I’ll wait to tell you everything I've been wanting to say for years but was too chicken shit to. But you’re free, Mick. Free from that hell you were in because of me. Free from Terry. And hopefully you can be free from whatever it is that's inside you that made you think doing this to yourself was the answer.”

“You don't know me.”

“I did. Once. And I hope I get to again.”

“Not a chance.”

It’s quiet for a while that fucking beeping grating on your nerves again. You feel the warmth of his hand still just inches from yours on the bed. He was always so warm. You finally look at him again and he's just staring at you. A warmth in his eyes. In the way he's leaning over in his chair. No, you can’t...you can’t do this again.

“Just go. Please, Gallagher. Just...go.”

He sighs and nods, pulling his hand off the bed and your immediately cold, a shiver running through your body. “Okay, Mick. I should catch a shower and a few hours of sleep anyway. I’ll see you later.”

“Don't-” Don’t make promises. Don't lead me on. Don’t say shit you don't mean. Don't do this to me again. Don't leave me. Don’t love me. Don't lie to me. Don't make me love you again. 

“Get some rest, Mick. And don't give anyone a hard time so they can take the restraints off.”

You watch as he pats the cops shoulder as he walks out of your room and the guy just nods at him. Leave it to Gallagher to make friends with everyone while you were…

Dying. You feel like you died. Maybe you did. 

You lay there a long time replaying Ian’s words. Free. 

Free.

_What you and I have makes me free._

Maybe you were right.

But you know you're not. 

You look up when a nurse with long blonde hair and a sweet smile enters your room.

“Your boyfriend go home, finally? How you feeling? You must be hungry.” She checks your IV bag and takes your pulse on your wrist. “Think I can take these restraints off? I know you must be starving. Let's give it a go, shall we? Then we can get Dr. Rubino in here. He’s the psychiatrist. Been monitoring you pretty closely. We just wanna make sure you don't do anything like that again, ok?” She starts to unbuckle the shackles on your wrists and you thought she’d never shut the fuck up.

You rub your wrists one at a time when she’s done and writes a few things in your chart.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” You mumble.

“Mmmm.” She shuts the clipboard and gives you that warm smile again. “Might wanna tell him that.”

You sigh heavily as she exits. 

Yeah, you'll have to do that.

***********

Your wrists are healing perfectly as the nurses and doctors say and Ian is there every fucking day with his smiles and outside food that he’s not supposed to bring in but theres cans of pringles and slim jims and fuck him. Just seriously fuck him.

A therapist comes in everyday and asks you routine questions and Ian makes sure he's there for that too, nodding and taking notes on medications your on and he asks his own questions because if anyone knows the crazy drugs it's him and you keep telling these quacks you don't need medication; that you're not crazy or suicidal and the quack always answers the same that it's just precaution, that you did slit your wrists and everyone just wants to understand.

Well fuck them. Because how can they understand when you don't even understand.

Ian wheels you around the grounds of the hospital and you get to smoke now and the sun feels good on your skin and fuck him for knowing its what you need. You don't talk much to him. It's mostly grunts and eye rolls but he never shuts the fuck up. He babbles on about the other Gallagher’s and about his job before he took a leave of absence to be with you, and he even tells you about the guy he was seeing before...well before.

It's a warm spring day, the promise of summer just a breeze away and you're on your third cigarette and watching the ambulances pull into the parking lot. He's sitting on the bench beside your wheelchair; you still think its fucking ridiculous you need one. You slit your wrists; you didn't cut off your damn legs. But he’s fucking off on his phone and smirking at something and you say fuck it to yourself.

“The fuck you smiling at?”

He looks at you, eyes wide for a moment and he gently turns the screen of his phone toward you. You squint to see it; the sun blinding you a bit. It's a picture of a red haired toddler, bright grin and happy eyes and you flick your eyes back to him.

“Franny. Deb’s kid.” 

You nod and offer a simple murmur and go back to your cigarette. 

“Deb was asking how you were.”

“The fuck she care for?”

Ian rolls his eyes and shoves his phone in his sweatshirt pocket. “Right. Still think no one gives a shit.”

“Because no one does.”

“Oh, because I enjoy sitting in a hospital for months.” 

“No one fucking asked you to, fuck-face. In fact, I’m pretty sure I told you about a thousand times to leave me the fuck alone.” You flick your cigarette out into the parking lot and unlock your wheelchair. He grabs the arm and whirls you back to face him before you can move.

“I’m here because you're here. I want to be where you are, Mickey.” He looks so intense in this moment. His eyes so green, his face so serious. And everything you had been keeping inside, everything that brought you to this moment, the reason you had done what you had done, came bubbling to the fucking surface. Fuck it.

“You never visited me. Never called. I was in that hell for years and you were out living your life like I never even existed to you. That we had...what we went through was nothing.”

He swallows but never takes his eyes off you. He deserves to hear this. And you deserve to say it. You want to see the hurt in his eyes. You want him to hear the pain. To feel it. To feel just for a second what you had been feeling for years, because of him.

“You broke up with me just because I cared. And I get it, it's the sickness. It's the fucked up way your brain works. But not once did you offer me an apology. And explanation. All those years. And I sat and replayed every moment between us, every day, every fucking second for years. They call it prison for a reason, Gallagher. Because it is. Youre stuck in your own prison while gaurds beat the shit out of you and guys think they can do whatever the fuck they want to you to escape the own hell they are in. You have no idea what those years were like. Because you didn't come. And now you show up, why? Because I tried to off myself? You think this is going to fucking make up for all that? You’re here because you feel guilty. You feel like a piece of shit, because you are, firecrotch. You’re a piece of shit. I gave you everything and I got nothing. Nothing but a 15 year prison sentance and scars on my fucking wrists and still no way out of god damn hell. So you can go now. Maybe you’ll finally hear me this time. I don’t fucking want you here. Looking at you makes me sick to my stomach and brings me right back to the fucking bad place where I want to slice my wrists open all over again. Thanks for helping with the cops and prison thing. But don't sit there and lie and tell me you did that for me. You did that for you. So you wouldn’t feel so fucking guilty for leaving me there to rot.”

There are tears streaming down his face now and if you were the old you it would have made you feel different. But you aren't. And you are different. You’ve been waiting a fucking long time to tell him this shit. You never thought you would. You thought you’d go to your grave never telling him how much pain there was because you were fucking Mickey Milkovich and Milkovich’s don't talk about their feelings or pain. They take the pain and just keep going. And you will keep going. Once you make him feel some of your pain.

“So go back to your life. Go back to your boyfriend and your job and your fucking family. I don't need you here. And I don't want you here. Leave. Me. The. Fuck. Alone. Do you hear me, Gallagher?”

He nods, sniffles, wiping the tears off his cheeks. He keeps nodding and looks up to keep the rest of his tears at bay. He finally looks at you one last time. “I love you, you know. I always loved you. I can't make up for what I did. Or didn't do. I know that. I know I fucked up. I know I was a fucking asshole. But there was always something missing since you were gone. And I know it was you. And I could keep saying I’m sorry, but I’m trying to make it up to you. I’m trying to love you the way you deserved to be loved.”

You take in his words. You let them rattle around in your brain for a few minutes. You listen, you really do but his words make you feel nothing. The feelings that were once there were like phantom limbs. You know it was once there, but you know it's gone now. 

“Just leave me alone, Gallagher. I want you to leave me the fuck alone.” You say it slowly, so maybe he will fucking get it. 

He nods one more time and stands. He clears his throat and straightens his sweatshirt. “Okay.” He looks down at you, a glimmer of hope in his eyes that maybe you’ll say something else. Change your mind. But he finds nothing in the eyes staring back at him. “Goodbye, Mickey.”

You don't say goodbye. You’ve said enough.

It will be 2 years before you see him again. But this time you’re sitting at his hospital bed because now it's his wrists bandaged and restrained to the bed.


	2. I can tell that it's going to be a long road...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mickey sees Ian again 2 years after he was sent to prison, he didn't think it would be this way. He didn't want to see Ian again. He just wanted everything to be over. For the pain to stop. But no matter how Mickey tries to escape what once was between them, in so many different ways, he slowly comes to realize that the world is just too small, things are just too messed up with the both of them not to be in each others lives.
> 
> _“You wanna get to the point here, Phillip? I only get 10 minutes for break.”_
> 
> _“Ian’s in the hospital.” Mandy says quickly._
> 
> _Your veins run cold._
> 
> _“He, uh,” Lip rubs the back of his neck and looks around like a caged animal. “He tried to commit suicide.”_

You know you are gonna have blisters tomorrow from the handle of the jackhammer. It's making your body pulse and vibrate, and not in a good way, and your palms and every other inch of your skin is sweaty from the 100 degree heat. You’re just in a wife beater and cut off at the knee shorts and you know you look like a fucking idiot but fuck it. It's hot as balls and you don't want to die of heat stroke when this one job is paying you more than you make in one year.

The construction job you got a little over a year ago was something you never thought you'd really enjoy but you do. You get to work with your hands and use your strength and it’s long hours which keeps you out of your head most of the time and you fall into bed not soon after you get home at night leaving even less time to get wrapped up with shit you don't want to think about. You've gotten pretty good at it. 

Until now. Because you look up after a large piece of concrete finally breaks under your machine to wipe your brow and there they are.

She has blonde hair now. And you realize you haven't seen her in almost 4 years. She's still your sister, she looks the same, but she's holding herself in a way you never thought you'd see. She looks happy. And healthy. And part of you wants to run. Because she doesn't need this. You and the memories that come along with you. And you don't need her either. And the memories she has attached to her too.

He looks the same. Looking nothing like the rest of his siblings but he too looks like he's grown up and out too from all the bullshit. You don't know how they found you. It’s not like you had technically been hiding but you didn’t live in that fucking house anymore and you hadn’t seen...not since the hospital. So you don’t know how the fuck they found you. 

But here they are looking at you with worried eyes and shifting their weight from one foot to another and you could just ignore them but she’s your sister and...fuck.

You lay the jackhammer down and motion to your coworkers you're gonna grab a smoke. They nod and you jog across the small area to where they are standing.

“Hey,” Mandy breathes out once you're in front of her. She looks like she wants to hug you but she won’t. You're like a wounded animal to her. You glance at Lip.

“Hey Mickey.”

You just nod at him and grab your cigarettes from your back pocket. It takes till your final drag for them to say anything else.

“We wouldn't be here if...it wasn't important.” Lip finally says. “I know...I know you didn't want anything to do with-”

“Ian.” You finish.

He nods.

“Lip called me when it happened.” Mandy blurts out.

“When what happened?”

She swallows and looks at Lip. Lip takes in a deep breath.

“Look, I know you don't give a shit. And I get it. To be honest I was a little relieved when he stopped going to the hospital. I mean it was right for him to do all he did with the cops and shit, I mean none of that was really your fault but-”

“You wanna get to the point here, Phillip? I only get 10 minutes for break.”

“Ian’s in the hospital.” Mandy says quickly. 

Your veins run cold.

“He, uh,” Lip rubs the back of his neck and looks around like a caged animal. “He tried to commit suicide.”

You swallow. Don't say anything. Walk away. It doesn't concern you. You're done with this shit. It's been over a year. You moved on. This shit is over. You have a life now. Without him. You don't need this. You don't need him.

They just keep staring at you. Mandy with tears in her eyes and a small smile on her face despite the circumstance because you know she's just so happy to see you. And Lip...he's waiting. Hes waiting to see if your going to tell him to fuck off or say something else in true Mickey fashion. 

“And?” You finally ask.

Lip doesn't look surprised but Mandy does. Fuck her.

“And they haven't taken the restraints off in over a month and he won't speak. Or eat. He won't look at any of us. And we think the only person he wants to see is you. I didn't want to come here. But...you're it, Mickey. I don't know why or how it happened but you're it for him. He loves you and it doesn't matter if you're in fucking jail or not talking to him or fuck even if you were dead, it would still be you.”

You're shaking now. 

“Mickey, please.” Mandy whispers.

You rub your thumb against your bottom lip and squint up to the blinding summer sun.

You turn and walk away.

******

“Relationship to the patient?”

Your fingers grip the edge of the reception desk in front of you, white knuckling it.

You mumble.

“Excuse me?”

“Family.”

The nurse raises an eyebrow at you.

You swallow pieces of glass.

“Partner.”

It's the fastest and easiest way to get in to see him.

Yeah, you're going with that.

The metal door buzzes and you're led down the same hallway you have nightmares about. The nurse steers you away from the visitors room and down another long hallway. She stops at another metal door. 

“He’s been heavily medicated. And he's restrained for safety.”

“He's not a danger to himself”

“Not his. Yours. He's violent. Aggressive. Bites. Claws. Spits.” The nurse pauses. Her name tag says “Abby.” “Why haven't I seen you before? If you're his partner?”

“I was away for awhile. I...I was away. I’m back now.”

“Mmm.” She nods and opens the door. 

All the nightmarish images you had in your head don't even compare to the scene in front of you.

He looks dead. He's pale, and not the sexy ginger pale you remember. Pale, almost gray. His wrists have large red sores on them from the restraints and his eyes..not focused on anything in particular, aren’t the same eyes you still have dreams about. This isn't him. This isn't the man...the only man you've ever loved. 

“I’ll give you some privacy.” Abby shuts the door behind her but you’re glued to your spot. He hasn't moved. He hasn't looked at you, or anything but that spot on the ceiling. And you can't move either.

“Ian…” It had been so long since you had said his name. It felt foreign on your tongue like you were learning a new language and you can't seem to get the dialect down.

You see his body tense. He opens his mouth but not words come out. It takes you a few minutes to move closer into his room. When you're finally next to his bed you see the tears streaming down his cheeks. 

“Ian...man...what the fuck happened?” You whisper. You want to touch him. You want to crawl into that bed with him and hold him and let him cry it out like you used to. But those days seem like a lifetime ago. Maybe even in a different universe. 

“You.” He whispers.

Vomit rises in your throat. Of course. Why would it be any different? He was the reason you did it after all. 

“Ian…do you want me to go?”

He closes his eyes and pulls on the restraints. 

“Don't. Don’t do that. Fuck that looks like it kills, man.” You grab his arm and he stills. He just cries harder. 

“I can't do this without you!” He screams. It echos off the concrete walls and you jump inside your skin. 

“Ian…”

“I tried Mickey. I tried to move on. I tried to be well. I took my meds, I worked. I fucked. But...God why did you do this to me!? Why can't I just forget you? Why can't I let you go?” He's sobbing and screaming through the tears and you've never felt like you understood him more.

“I know.” Is all you can bring yourself to say.

“How did you do it?” He whispers. “How did you move on? Forget me?”

You sigh heavily. “I didn't.”

He laughs. “Yes you did. I saw you. You have a job. You don’t live in that fucking house anymore which means you have your own place. Unless your living with someone-”

You snort. “No fucking way.”

He still hasn't looked at you.

“You’re over me.”

“No.”

It takes him forever to turn his head toward you. There he is. Kinda. He's still in there. Somewhere.

“No?”

“Of course not, Gallagher. Just because I told you to leave me the fuck alone, doesn’t mean I’m over you. I just...couldn't.”

He almost smiles. 

“You’re under my skin, man. The fuck can I do? Fuck can I do?”

“I didn't do this because of you.”

“Okay.”

“I stopped taking the pills.”

“Okay.”

“I’m fucked up.”

“Okay.”

“I’m always going to be fucked up.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll never be better.”

“Okay.”

“I still love you.”

“Okay.”

“Do you still love me?”

You don't answer him.

“Will you stay with me?”

“Okay.”

He smiles. For him, it's better than nothing.

For you? It's the first time in over a year, the scars on your wrists itch.

******

“Glad to see some things never change.”

You look up from your ‘Guns and Ammo’ magazine to look at the oldest Gallagher. You flip it closed and toss it on the table next to Ian’s bed. 

“Southside forever.” You mumble.

She gives you a small smile and her eyes float to her sleeping brother. “How’s he doing?”

“Uh,” you rub your thumb along your bottom lip. “He sleeps a lot. But the meds are working. He’s talking and going to therapy. Took the restraints off so…”

And then she smiles at you. A bright Fiona smile you used to see during another time like this. When Ian was in this same hospital. It's a smile of appreciation. Knowing. Kindness. A smile you still aren't used to seeing. Accepting.

“The fuck you smiling at?”

“You. Just...knew you’d always make it back to each other.”

You huff out a laugh. “That ain't what this is. I’m just...I…”

“Just what? Sitting by his bedside everyday? Making sure he takes his pills? Not going to work so he isn't alone?”

You motion toward the window. “It's been raining. Cant do my job in the fucking rain.”

“Mmm. Right.” She pauses. “Nurse told me his partner has been here everyday? Partner?”

“Knew I couldn’t say ex convict, ex boyfriend now could I?”

She shakes her head and opens her purse and pulls out a few magazines and a book. “These are some of his favorites. I don't want to wake him. Just let him know I was here, okay? I’ll be back tomorrow.” She places them on the bed next to Ian’s motionless form. “For the record, whatever it is you're doing here, thank you.”

“The fuck for?”

She smiles again. “For never giving up on him.”

“I did. I did give up on him. I told him to stay the fuck away from me. I had moved on. But he-” You swallow down things you don't want to think about, let alone say. “He did this cause of me. I shouldn't even be here. This is why I walked away. We are fucking toxic to each other.”

“Maybe. It's not a secret you two are totally fucked in the head. For so many different reasons. But somehow you two are the only ones who can also bring out the best in one another. He didn't do this because of you, Mickey. I mean yeah he was sad for a long time after you being in the hospital, and maybe it triggered something in him, but if it wasn’t that it would have been something else. This is always going to be a part of him.”

“Yeah,” You sigh. “I know it is.”

“So what now? You sit by his bedside until he's better, like he did for you, and you walk away again?”

“I don’t fucking know!” You yell. You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I don’t fucking know what I’m doing.” You're saying too much. No one deserves an explanation. You're over this shit.

“Okay, well I’ll say this, and I will never butt in again. If you're not in this Mickey, really in this, then leave now. I’ll wait until he wakes up and yeah he will be devastated. But I'll handle it. Like I always do. Like our family always does. It's your free pass. I won't judge you or be pissed. I will totally understand. If you need to move on I get it. But if you stay, you need to stay. Good and bad. Sickness and health.”

You roll your eyes at the words. “Yeah, I tried that. He didn't want that.”

“Because he was a fucking scared kid who had just gotten diagnosed with his mother’s sickness. He didn't want to be a burden. But for some fucked up reason, I guess because he's a Gallagher and we always fall in love with the most fucked up people, he wants you. He's always wanted you. Question is, do you want him? All of him?”

You look down at Ian’s peaceful face. His hair had gotten too long again, just like the last time all this happened, and you find yourself unconsciously pushing it back off his forehead. The freckles you used to count on his face when he used to lie next to you in an uncomfortable twin size bed had faded over time. This is your out. You can walk away, no strings attached. You'd finally be free. No more bipolar. No more drama. No more horrible memories seeping into your nightmares every night. But you know you'd never really be free of them. And wouldn't the nightmares be better with him beside you?

It was going to be a long road. This wasn't an easy fix. You're not even sure it could be fixed. Fiona was right. You and Ian were fucked up and broken. But you knew why you'd been here everyday. You can't stand to see him in pain. You wanted more than anything for him to feel the pain you had, but now that you had seen it, felt it in your bones as his wrists were strapped to that bed for weeks before, you couldn't stand it. 

You look back at Fiona, hoping she didn't see the wetness in your eyes.

“I’m in.”

She nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mickey.”

You sit back down in the chair that had been your best friend and bed for weeks now and lean forward, burying your face in your hands, hoping the tears you swore you'd never shed for Ian Gallagher again would stop soon. You hear a sniffle and realize it wasn't you. You look up into wet green eyes. 

“Thank you.”

You shake your head and run your fingers over his wet cheek.

“Fuck you, Gallagher.”


	3. Please don't ever become a stranger, whose laugh I could recognize anywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ian gets better, Mickey's walls are kept up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long to update. My writers block hit me hard. I hope this chapter makes up for that. This relationship is a long road but there's light at the end of tunnel. 
> 
> Comments are LOVE.

Your eyes  flutter open and realize the sound of the garbage truck outside is what broke you from your sleep. If you can even call it that. You barely sleep.  Yeah , you get  maybe 4 hours if that a night between waking up startled from a nightmare or from movement beside you in bed and tense thinking  maybe  he’s about to make a run for it. Cause  that’s happened. A few times. 

It's been 2 months. And  you’re not sure why the fuck you are still here. 

He shifts behind you and you feel his fingers  graze the skin of your back. You swallow hard because it  doesn't matter how much time has passed; how you swore to yourself you  weren't going to get sucked into this bullshit again; a single touch of his finger sends you into a spiral of want and need. Safety. It pisses you off. But makes you feel the  freest you’ve felt in years. 

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and reach for the warm half empty bottle of beer on the side table, knocking over an orange pill bottle in the process. You pick it up and eye the label as if you  don't already know every medication name by heart. Along with the dosage. And refill date. You  chug down the warm liquid and a rush of  DeJa'Vu hits you like the garbage truck still rattling along the street outside. 

All of this is such an old feeling for you. So simple in so many ways. But there is nothing simple about this now. Before you knew where you stood in his life. In the life of his family. Now? You have no idea who you even are anymore in your own life. And you hate yourself for allowing this to happen to you again. You had made your decision. You had gotten away. You had made it clear what you wanted. Now you have no idea what the fuck you want. 

His hand caresses the skin of your lower back under your shirt and you  literally shiver at his touch. He keeps doing that. He keeps gently touching you here and there and you want to scream at him to stop. That he  doesn't get to touch you so tenderly anymore. That you  aren't the same person you were all those years ago when this had happened before. But  he's fragile. You know that. And  he's come so far that the  slightest thing could push him back. And  that's what pisses you off the most. Because you care about shit like that. 

Fuck him.

Fuck bipolar.

Fuck this house.

And fuck yourself for allowing this to happen again. 

“Time is it?” He mumbles. 

“Almost 8.” You stand. He  doesn't get to touch you. “Take your pills. I’ll see if anyone left you breakfast.” You grab a cigarette on the way out but your name on his lips makes you turn slightly to look at him.  He’s half sitting up, his hair sticking  every which way and the sun is hitting it in just the right way to make it look like the light of a candle. Fuck him for being so beautiful even when  he’s broken. 

“Are you ever gonna look at me again?”

“I look at you every fucking day, Ian.  I’m here,  aren't I? What more do you want?”  You're trying so hard not to get mad. To go to your default mode of pushing back. But this is still such an open wound for you. You  haven't healed from the last time and every second  you're in this house, counting out his pills for him, making sure he eats and showers,  it's like the wounds are  getting picked at and bleeding all over the place. 

“You  won't even let me touch you.”

“Because you  can't , Ian.” 

“Why?” His voice is quivering and it takes every ounce of  self-control you have not to go to him. Sit on the bed and comfort him like you know  he’s aching for you to do. You ache for it too. But you just  can't . 

“Because I  can't let you. Not yet. Okay? I…fuck.  I’m here.  I’m sleeping in that God Damn bed with you every night.  I’m coming home to you every day. Just...not fucking yet.” You rub at your bottom lip and reach for the door handle. You  haven't even been able to light your fucking cigarette yet. 

“You’ll tell me though, right? When...I can?”

You nod and you  aren't even sure he can see it at the angle your standing. But he breathes out and  it's enough. For now. 

“Take your pills. And shower. And then  come eat .” You swing open the bedroom door and leave it open, hoping he will listen to you. 

Fiona is sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee when you  trudge down the stairs. She smiles at you and that pisses you off too because this  is all so fucked up and you hate her and yourself. Mostly yourself.  Honestly you  don't hate her at all. Or any of  them actually . 

“Morning.” You mumble and head to get yourself some coffee. “Is there anything to eat for him?”

“Pancakes in the fridge.”

“ Mmm .” You grab them before you even pour yourself coffee and  it's just another thing that you hate about yourself.

“He up?”

“Yeah, damn garbage truck.”

“He needs to be up anyway. Doctor says he needs to be active.”

“Yeah, I got it.” You finally get some coffee and practically pour it down your throat.  You’re still holding the damn unlit cigarette and you have never wanted to scream so much in your life. 

Fiona is next to you holding out a lighter and you forgot how freaking quietly these  Gallagher's can be sometimes. “Thanks.” 

She nods and leans against the counter. “You gonna stay?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean he’s better.  I think the worst is over.”

“Yeah, and?” You smoke and drink your coffee trying hard not to look into her prying eyes.

“Just wondering if you’re gonna be changing your mailing address to here? I mean when is the last time you’ve even been to your apartment?”

You narrow your eyes at her and grit your teeth. “I told you I was in,  didn't I? You fucking made me  make a decision . I made it. I’m here.”

She presses her lips together. “You barely look at him, Mickey.”

“I’m sleeping in his damn bed.”

“Because there is no place else for you to sleep.”

“Fuck off. I could sleep on the couch.”

“But you  won't .”

“Any point to this conversation but are we just gonna keep throwing out obvious statements all morning?”

“Just wondering  what's going on in that mind of yours, is all.”

“Yeah, well when I figure it  out, you’ll be the first person I tell, kay?”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Ian’s not the only one healing.  You’ve been through the ringer. Just checking in to make sure you’re ok too.”

“Well I’m not. But that  doesn't matter, right? Ian comes first. Always has.”

“Maybe. But maybe now that he’s better you let him take care of you?”

You shake her hand off your shoulder and step back from her. “You have no idea what I need or  don't need from Ian. I will handle my own relationship shit, okay?”

She holds her hands up in defense. “Okay. Sorry for giving a shit.”

You sigh. “I’m here. I... don't know what the fuck is going on. I guess I just  gotta make sure  he’s okay first and then I  don't fucking know. Okay?  There's your answer. I  don't fucking know.”

She smiles gently. “Okay.”

Ian comes  barreling down the stairs, hair wet from his shower and dressed in low hung sweat pants and one of your shirts. Jesus Christ, this guy.

“Breakfast?” He asks,  almost out of breath.

“Yeah tough guy. Pancakes. Let me warm them up.” You grab the plate but  he’s beside you  almost instantly , gently taking the plate from you.

“I can do it, Mick. Go sit down.” He smiles at you and  it's been months...fuck  maybe even years since  you’ve seen that smile. It invades you; like morphine through your veins and for a second you almost want to lean in and kiss him like you used to.  It's like a phantom limb. 

He can sense it.  There's a static between you two; like magnets and  you're so close to him you can smell his shampoo. He looks good; better than he has in a long time. And you miss him. His fingers are brushing yours across the plate and its  warm and inviting and perfect. You can tell Fiona is watching the two of you like  some kind of soap opera and you want to tell her to fuck off for staring at something so intimate; staring at something you  aren't even sure what it is. 

You linger longer than you should, just because you need to be near him, like this, for a few seconds longer. But finally, against your will, you let go of the plate. He just keeps smiling and  you’re out the back door before you finally breathe again.

************

  
He doesn't try to touch you again for 3 weeks. You get home around 6 and shove your boots off by the bed and he’s sitting up reading. He does that a lot. Been going to the library during the day and spends hours just figuring out what books he wants to bring home. There are books scattered all over the already cluttered room and it worried you for a second because it had almost become obsessive and it's your first instinct to think something is off with him, yet again. But it's clear now he’s just bored and there's not much else to do with himself during the day. 

He sets the book down when you finally sit on the edge of the bed and crack your shoulders. 

“Hard day?”

You grunt and pop your wrists a few times. “New Starbucks. Fucking asshole hipsters.”

Ian huffs out a laugh and scoots his body further down the bed until  he’s right behind you. You can feel his breath on your neck. 

“I could...give you a massage.” He  almost whispers . There is so much  uncertainty in his voice. “I mean...just your shoulders or whatever.”

He’s trying to tell you in his own way  it's not a sexual thing. He honestly just wants to make your joints feel better. 

“If you  wanna …” You mumble. You can practically hear him smile and then his hands are on your shoulders gently. You startle, you  can't help it, and he mumbles an apology. You soften your stance and he  gets to work more firmly now over the strained muscles in your shoulders. You moan, you  don't mean to, but fuck you forgot how strong his hands are. 

“Jesus, Mick. You’re so tight.” And you stiffen at the  familiar words and he chuckles behind you because  he's realized what  he's said. You let it go and so does he and you relax once more into his hands. 

He rubs your shoulders and upper back for  almost 20 minutes, his hands never growing weaker.  You’re like jello, hunching forward on your elbows, trying to keep yourself from falling over by putting the weight of your body on your knees. But when his fingers find their way to your neck you snap back upright and his hands still. 

“Sorry. I forgot  that's …” He trails off. Your spot. Your zone. The place that once touched gets you rock hard in 10 seconds. And  yup . There it is. Your hard on. Fuck. 

“Do you want me to stop?”

Yes.

“Nah.  It's cool.” You lie.  It's not cool.  It's not fine. But if he stops touching you it feels like you might die. 

His hand start off firm on your neck, just massaging the back where it meets your shoulders. He keeps it up for about 5 minutes but then his touches become lighter and when he hits the spot right under your ear you jerk and a  guttural moan escapes your lips.

He pauses but when you  don't tell him to  stop, he starts up again; feather light touches with his fingertips around you the shell of your ear and around to your bobbing  Adams apple from swallowing down all the moans of  ecstasy your body is  unconsciously trying to project. And then you feel it.

His lips at the nape of your neck and your  whole-body shivers and his tongue swirls around your sweaty skin and  Christ you're so hard in your work jeans you feel like your  gonna blow at any second.  It's been months since  you've even jerked off. Consumed with making sure Ian was better and working and fuck his mouth feels so good on you. 

“Gallagher…” You warn. Because you  can't tell him to stop. You physically cannot make the words come out of your mouth and you  can't pull away because fucking magnets, remember?  No, he needs to stop himself. He needs to know he  can't go any further. 

“Kiss me.” He begs. Christ, no.  You’d let him fuck you. You know it. You  wouldn't care if he  was balls deep in you in the next 30 seconds...but kissing him. No. You feel like  you’re right back where you were  almost 8 years ago when you were the in the closet south side  thug that thought kissing was too gay and. .. no. He  can't kiss you. Because it  can't be like that yet. 

“No,” You groan out when he finally seals his mouth over that spot under your ear and a whispered fuck comes out right after. 

“Please. Just once. I need to feel your lips on me, Mick.  I’ve waited.  I’ve been patient.  I’ve given you space and you took care of me like you always did before. Thank you.”

You shake your head because he  doesn't need to thank you. It's bullshit. All of this is such bullshit. 

“This  isn't me being manic…” He pleads and you know  it's not.  He’s fine.  He’s Ian again. The meds are working.  He’s gonna go back to work next week. This is just...him wanting you. Or anyone. It could be anyone. 

“I  can't …” You plead at him. 

“Why? Because you know  you’ll feel it?  You’ll feel how right it is between us? That this is it, Mick? You and me? Always?”  He’s licking and sucking and kissing your neck now and you  have to adjust yourself in your jeans and your white knuckling your knees so you  don't touch him. 

“ Won't change anything, Ian. I’m still…”

“Angry. Hurt. Healing. I know. But why  can't we do it together? How come you get to help me, but I  can't help you?”

You swallow hard at his question. “Because  you're the reason  I'm broken Ian. How can you fix it when I  don't even know how you can?”

“Let me try. Please.”

“And you think kissing me is gonna fix it?” You hate yourself for how weak you sound right now. 

“It  can't hurt. And  you'll be able to feel how I feel when I touch you.” He presses  an open mouth kiss to your neck. “ Don't you feel it?”

“Y-Yes.” 

“Touch me, please, Mick. Please.” 

You  can't take it anymore and you turn your entire body toward him and stop thinking. You press your lips to him, close mouthed. But the second your lips touch you want more. You want his tongue and his breath and you want to breathe him into you. He wraps his large hands around the back of your neck and deepens the kiss and your powerless against him. Against the feeling of him. Against the voices in your head telling you this is a mistake. That this is the worst thing to happen. But you  don't fucking care.  You’ve waited years to feel him again and  you're still broken and this will  probably break you even more but it  can't be worse than how  you've been broken before by this man in front of you. 

So, you give in. You open your mouth and slide your tongue against his and there are moans and you  aren't sure which one of you it is.  Maybe  it's both. It  doesn't matter. Nothing matters right now but the fact that  you're now kneeling on the bed in front of him kissing him like you need him to breathe. He tastes the same and smells the same and your head is swimming with memories and fear and doubts. He senses it, pulling back and searching your eyes. You  haven't looked at him, really looked at him in so long you had almost forgotten how fucking green his eyes really were. 

“Mick…” He rubs his thumb over your cheek, searching your face for something. A feeling that maybe you're not giving him in the kisses. But how can he not feel what your feeling? Doesn't he?

You lick your bottom lip, tasting him again. You raise an eye brow at him.

“You hungry?”

Your eyes widen and you huff out a laugh. “What the fuck?”

“ There's pizza.” He smiles and you realize  he's respecting your boundaries. He asked for a kiss. He got it. And your head is spinning.

“Okay,  Fire crotch .  Let's eat some fucking pizza.” You roll your eyes at him and stand up. You palm your hard on and his eyes glaze over for just a second and he mimics your movement in his own boxers. You hold out your hand to him. He gives you one of those firework smiles and takes it gently. 

It's not much but  it's a start.

Or  maybe  it's everything. 

**************

You would think things would get easier after the kiss. Better.

They  don’t .

In  fact, they get horribly worse. 

Ian starts back at his job and you lose your damn mind every time  he’s late getting home or  doesn’t answer your texts. And the tonight he decides to go out with some of his “friends” from work leaving you pacing the cramped bedroom till  almost midnight and you realize just how not okay things are.

“Where the fuck have you been?” You scream. You know  it's almost midnight and there are a fuck ton of other people in the house trying to sleep but you  don’t give two  shits . 

The fucker has the nerve to look confused. “I went out for a drink with some friends from work.” 

“I’ve been texting you all fucking night.” You spit out at him through clenched teeth. 

“My phone died. I was playing candy crush during my lunch. Drained the battery.” 

His excuse sounds reasonable enough. But you are far from reasonable right now. 

“You  can't just  disappear all damn day and not have me know where the fuck you are!”  You’re pacing again. And  he’s just taking off his jacket and toeing off his shoes like  he’s done nothing wrong at all. 

“Why?”

“WHY?!” 

“Yeah, why? Am I your boyfriend? Am I on some leash I  don’t know about? What the fuck are you worried about? Me having an episode and  disappearing again? Me getting a blow job in some alley way in  boys town ? Me spending the night at some guys house?”  He’s so calm it makes you want to slam his head into the wall. You almost do. Your fingernails are digging into the palms of your hands to keep yourself from  literally killing him. 

“YES!”

He rolls his eyes .... fucking rolls his eyes...and all you see is red. You grab him and shove him against the wall. 

“Do it.” He snarls at you. “Hit me. I dare you.” 

You bring your fist up, inches from his face. He  doesn’t flinch . 

“Come on you pussy, fucking hit me!” He yells, spitting in your face. Your fist hits the wall next to his head and you feel the sheet rock shatter against your hand. And then he laughs. 

“Fucking pussy.” He shoves you back and you stumble over his shoes in the middle of the floor. And that does it. You lunge at him and he grabs at  your shoulders as you elbow him in the stomach. He’s not as muscular as he used to be; those months in the hospital taking most of it with him; but he keeps his stance as you jab at his sides and he wraps his long fingers in your hair to pull you back off him. He goes for your neck; a move  he’s used on you before; but you duck out of the way and punch him right in the stomach. 

You know what  he's doing and it hits you as suddenly as his fist to your jaw. You have  DeJa'Vu and  it's like being back at the dugouts when he  was first diagnosed .  He’s trying to get you to be...you again.  He’s pulling emotions out of you. Anger. Jealousy. Worry. Pain. All the things  you’ve been keeping locked inside yourself since you decided to step back into his life. 

This is what you do to each other.  This is why you wanted out. 

“No.” You step back and he moves for you again but you shove him back hard. “NO.”

He’s breathing hard, his arm wrapped around his middle from the punches you got in. You wipe at the blood on your spit lip.  He’s given you worse. “NO? NO?”

“I’m not doing this with you.” 

“YOU AREN'T DOING ANYTHING!?” He screams and  you’re sure everyone is awake in the house now. You  actually hear Fiona’s door creek open. 

And there it is. You knew it. 

“So, you thought you’d what, make me jealous in order to get me to say something?”   
  
“Say something?” He scoffs. “No, you say enough. But you don't feel anything!”

“I feel way more than you think, Gallagher.”

“ So, we’re back to Gallagher again, huh?” 

You narrow your eyes at him. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“YOU. I FUCKING WANT YOU!”

“I’M RIGHT HERE.” You extend your arms out. He laughs. The fucker laughs at you. 

“No,  you're not.  You’re miles away from me, Mick. You have been for months.  Yeah , you make sure I take my pills and eat and do the normal shit, just like before, but  there's nothing...” He motions between the two of you. “There is no fucking emotion here. I don’t feel anything when I look at you.”

“Then I guess I’ll just fucking go then.” You turn to grab your boots and he grabs your arm but you retch away from him. 

“ That's not what I want!”

“You just said you feel nothing when you look at me. I think that’s pretty  self-explanatory .”

“No...” He sighs and rubs his hands over his face. “I’m not saying I don’t FEEL anything for you.  I’m saying that I  don’t feel anything FROM you.  It's like...just air when you look at me. Stillness.”

You stand there, staring at him, one boot in your hand and take a few short breathes. 

“Ian, when I look at you, all I feel is...fear. Confusion. Anger.”

You see the moment his heart actually breaks. All the adrenaline and anger he had just moments ago, fades slowly. And his body hunches over and he just...deflates.

“Still?”

“Yeah, Gallagher. Still. That shit doesn’t just magically go away just because you we both tried to off ourselves.” He flinches and for the first time in a long time you feel...regret. 

“I don’t know how to get you to forgive me. What else I can do to show you...” He shrugs because you know he doesn’t know. Neither do you. 

“Yeah, well,  purposely trying to piss me off  isn't helping.”

“At least I got something out of you. You don’t show me any type of emotion. Not even anger. You’re like a fucking robot, Mick.”

“Well you got me to yell. Happy now?”

He nods. “Actually, yes.  It's something. It’s a start.”

You both stand there quiet for a while. Staring at each other. 

“We are going to start doing something  every day .  Every day we are going to tell each other one thing we felt that day and why.”

You  snort . “Why the fuck would we do that?”

“Because we need to. We need to talk about the shit we are feeling. And maybe...it’ll help get us back to where we should be.” He shrugs. 

“Ian...” You exhale. “I have no idea where the fuck we should be. I don’t even know if I should be here at all.”

“Well I do. I want you here. I want you in my bed at night. I want to wake up next to you. I want to be able to touch you again. Kiss you. I want to be able to fuck you again.” You wince visibly at that. “See? The thought of me fucking you makes you sick.”

“It doesn’t make me sick. Christ.” You sit heavily on the edge of the bed. “I just... don't trust you yet. I  don’t trust you with me. I  don’t trust that the second I let my guard down, just a little  you’re not  gonna run off and make a porno again. Or if I say the wrong thing, or get too needy or pushy you  aren't gonna ...”

“Leave you?”

You look up at him and shrug. “Maybe.”

He falls to his knees in front of you. He rests his hands on your knees but you  don’t look at him. You just keep your eyes on his fingers. You had almost forgotten he has freckles on his god damn fingers.

“Today I felt lonely. I felt lonely because the man I love  won't let me in. He  won't let me love him. Because  he’s scared. Because I was stupid and shitty to him and  I’ve been trying to show him how much I want him but he  won't let me in.  So, I ignored his calls all day and went out to some club and had a drink by myself because I was being a fucking brat.”

You half smile. He is a brat. But  he’s your brat. You finally look up at him. He looks...so fucking sad.  So, you give him something. You reach out and run your fingers along his cheek and over his chin. He relaxes  into your touch. 

“Today I  felt... ” Fuck this is stupid. “...afraid. Afraid that the guy I. .. that he was off fucking someone else. Afraid that I had put myself yet again in a situation where I was just  gonna get dumped on all over again. Afraid that this would be the third time I lost him.”

“You  aren't going to lose me. How many times do I have to tell you,  you’re it for  me? How many times do I have to lose my damn mind, literally before you get that there is no one out there better for me? That you are the one person in this whole fucked up world who really gets me? Knows me?”

“You’re not that same person, Ian. Neither am I.”

“Okay, so we  are allowed to change. To make mistakes. Learn. Grow up.  So, we have some tough waters to tread through. But why does this have to be so hard, huh? Why  can't we just...be together and slowly heal together?”

“Because some things  aren't able to be fixed. You  can't fix me.”

“I don’t want to fix you.  You’re not broken, Mick. But  you’re hurt. You have so much pain...from so many different things. You let me in once. You let me...help you feel something other than what you had  been put through your whole life. We were free once. Why  can't we just be free?”

He uses your own words back at you and you wrap your hand around his cheek. He leans into your touch. You want it to be that easy. You want to knock down the wall you had built around yourself in prison when you were alone and there was nothing left. You want to believe every word  he’s spewing at you. Fuck,  it's all you want. And those eyes look so sincere. They had once before too. And you know  he’s sick. You know  it’ll happen again. You know no matter how long you stay together you both will keep hurting each other. But you had once heard in a movie, or read in a book or heard some bullshit about how the ones you love the most are the ones who hurt you the most. Because if you  don’t give a shit about them, nothing they do could hurt you. 

And no one hurts you as much as Ian Gallagher. 

“I’ll do the stupid feeling word thing, okay? And  I’ll ...try. But  it's not  gonna be some overnight thing.  I’m still  gonna get mad and yell.  I’m still  gonna push back when you pull too close. That’s  gonna take time and shit.” You sigh heavily. And he just smiles gently at you. 

“I’ll take it.”

He leans up presses his forehead to yours. You can feel his breath on your face and can smell the light beer on his tongue. He wants to kiss you. And you want him to.  You’ve been craving it for days.  So, you lean in and press your lips firmly to his.  It's not heated.  It's just...concrete. A push as he pushes. Meeting in the middle. You break apart with a soft smack and he rubs the back of your head where your hair meets your neck. Just where you like it. Just the spot that calms you every damn time. 

Maybe he’s the one person who knows you the best too. Who fits somehow into your  fucked-up space  just  right ? This tall,  gangly redhead who somhow clicks right into place with you.  It's ridiculous, as most things have been in your life. And you wonder for a split second why  you’ve been holding on to all that anger towards him. You know why, he knows why, but...is it  really worth it ? You know  you’d go through all that pain all over again just to have him right here in your space for just a second. It  doesn’t matter if he hurts you again.  He’s it for you. You knew it then. You know it now. 

“We good?” You whisper. He nods and kisses you again. Just a mere press of his lips. He goes to pull away but you wrap your hands around the back of his neck and open your mouth before his even hits yours. Your tongue slides past his teeth and when you taste the stale beer taste inside him you moan and suddenly he’s sucking on your tongue like he used to that drove you insane with want and he’s pushing you back onto the bed and rutting against you with his semi against your thigh. You  can't fuck him. Not yet. But you will be able to. Someday soon.

You kiss for a while. Its  heated and needy and perfect. You  don’t try to shove each other’s clothes off or grab  each other's dicks . You make out like  it’s the end of  some kind of date and  you’re 17 years old. But you two never did this at 17. You never just made out in a bed without it leading to sex 3 minutes later. You never just...got to enjoy each other. The only time that ever happened  was ruined the next morning. Which was the start of your downfall. 

You shake your thoughts away of that day and everything that happened after that because right now his weight is consuming on top of you and you feel light headed and almost high from how  he’s sucking marks into your neck.  It's been so long since  he’s marked you like this and you know  it’s the one thing he used to love to do.  He’d poke at the  hickies the next day and  smirk knowing he did it so everyone would know you  were taken . It makes you feel euphoric that  he’s doing that again. That he feels like  you’re his again. And you  don’t mind it.

Once your lips are too sore to keep kissing and your hard  on's have gone down he curls up next to you in his tiny twin bed and slowly falls to sleep, his fingers curling into your hair. You wait until you know  he’s fully out and gently pull yourself out of bed. 

You’re about to close the bathroom door when the hall light flicks on and you see Fiona. She looks...concerned. 

“We’re fine.” 

There is no way she  can't see how swollen and used your lips look. And how your hair is a wreck from Ian’s fingers. And that your shirt  is wrinkled from him grabbing at it. She nods. 

“I love him.” You tell her as she walks back to her room. She stills, her hand on the door  jamb . 

“I know.” She whispers. 

“I  won't hurt him. Not on purpose. I’m  gonna take care of him.” You assure her. 

She turns and gives you a small smile. “We always hurt the ones we love the most.”

She shuts her bedroom door and you lean your head against the bathroom door and let yourself cry. 

You feel...scared.


End file.
